Why

"John, fetch me my phone."

The blonde sighed, arms crossed, and tartly said, "No."

Sherlock hardly looked up from the body. "John, I can't very well get it myself." He motioned to his arms holding up the cadaver's limb.

"No, because then you'll just have me do whatever it was you were going to do on it." John shifted his weight onto his other leg, exasperated.

"With."

"Excuse me?" He sputtered at Sherlock's not unexpected blunt response.

"With." Sherlock repeated his correction.

John raised a puzzled eyebrow.

"Right pocket."

Sighing, John obeyed, loyal as ever, as he roughly thrust his hand down his pants into the taller man's coat pocket.

"Pants pocket." Still not looking up, his tone was nonchalant, eyes still flaring with excitement towards the corpse, knowing full well that John wouldn't fail as his servant.

Still eying him suspiciously as he usually did, he shoved his hand into another one of Sherlock's pockets. Only then did Sherlock look up, and John was shocked at the look he received. It was a strange expression to see on the consulting detective's face, a homogeneous mixture between interest, scheming, and something else that he couldn't quite place. It seemed to startle himself almost as much as it did John.

"What?" he asked, his voice suddenly horse, groping hand forgotten.

"You-your eyes..." The curly haired man stuttered, then suddenly did something John never thought he would see. He... blushed!? The next moment, it was gone, as if it was never there, and Sherlock shifted his waist away from his partner, somehow depositing the phone in Watson's hand.

"Take a picture of this." He gestured to a blotch of something under the subject's limp, cold arm, but as John aimed the phone's camera, he could tell that the man standing next to him was only partially immersed in his work. Something was up; Sherlock was never like this.

John closed the flat door behind him as the two stepped into the semi-messy apartment. Almost immediately, Sherlock began to question him.

"So you say you're not gay?"

Sighing, he responded with an annoyed undertone, "Yes. And what about my eyes?"

"You're the only one who seems to expect something when you look at me."

John's heart sank and lept at the same time. "You mean-"

"I'm old news." Sherlock kept eye contact, but he didn't seem to be looking at who was in front of him. John didn't know what to say, even more so when Sherlock stepped closer to him; too close.

"I shot for the moon, but instead hit the nearest star." John was startled by this, knowing Sherlock to be direct and not one to speak in riddles.

"What's that supposed to mean?" He was all too aware of Sherlock's breath tapping him on the nose each second that passed, eliminating the doubt that this wasn't a dream.

"It's a metaphor. The moon is the case," Sherlock put an arm around John's waist, not flinching in return as he did, "And you're the star."

"This is too close." John said, a bead of sweat dripping down his chin, hesitating.

"I know it is."

"We're not an item." His voice was almost asking, like he was making sure he had it right, half hoping he was. Against his will, he couldn't deny the fact that his heart was racing frantically.

"Why?" John responded to Sherlock's question with a confused pout. "Why not?" He continued.

Just as he was about to retort in his own defense, he felt the brunette's hardened crotch twitch against his own nether regions. It was then that he realized that he didn't have an answer to that query.

As if reading his mind, Sherlock pulled him closer, so that no part of their fronts weren't touching. John wanted to fight back, to push him away, but he couldn't think of a good reason not to. That was when he realized it; he liked Sherlock. He didn't know why or how, but he provided a sort of danger, a challenge that he hadn't known in the longest time. His intellect, his insight, his disorder, his annoying, sassy retorts, he craved it all. He craved Sherlock Holmes.

So when he went to kiss John, John kissed him back.